


waitingon you

by LeaXIII



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeaXIII/pseuds/LeaXIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jay's head falls back against the wall behind him, and he can barely breathe, but he forces himself to stay awake, because Tim will be back any minute to save him. (Spoilers for Entry 83.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	waitingon you

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for mentions of blood, drowning, mind screw, basically everything that's in Entry 65.

It hurts.

Of course it hurts, it’s a fucking gunshot wound, but this isn’t like the movies where the hero can keep on fighting.

Jay slides to the floor, clutching his stomach, gasping for air and fighting back tears and looking frantically around the room for some way out but there’s something warm and wet on his hand and oh god oh god he’s bleeding this is it isn’t it

But no, there has to be some way out, because there’s  _always_  been a way out, no matter how bad things get he’s always come out okay and this time won’t be any different because it  _can’t_  be any different because if he dies here then everything will have been for nothing and he’ll never find out  _anything_.

But then  _it_ 's there.

He can’t breathe.

It stares down at him, tilting its head, and as he begins to shake with sobs of fear and pain it suddenly reaches out and

He hits the cold concrete with a thud that steals away the gasp of pain from his lips.

He knows he has to get up, to run, to get away, but he’s choking and fighting for air and he can feel  _it_  behind him and he knows he won’t get far and even though he can’t remember it exactly he somehow knows what’s coming and

Pure instinct is the only thing that keeps him from inhaling a mouthful of water as he’s plunged to the depths of  _something_ , and pure instinct makes him claw at the water around him desperately, every movement ripping a new hole open in his stomach or at least that’s what it feels like. But he can’t focus on the pain, he can’t think, he can’t breathe, the only thing that he can do is fight frantically for the surface but he can’t find it everything’s too dark and

He’s tumbling down a hill, unable to even scream as tree roots and branches bruise his legs and his shoulders and his back and he reaches the rocks at the bottom of the hill with a loud thump that knocks any remaining air out of his lungs, and he can do nothing more than writhe in pain for a few seconds, coughing and gasping for breath and trying desperately to push himself to his feet because he has to run he has to get _away_

Then he sees  _her_.

Movement is impossible, it’s ripping him in half, but he manages it anyway, forces himself to crawl over to her, because he’s  _found_ her she’s finally here and so is he and the blood on his stomach and on his hands doesn’t even matter anymore if she’s here

but

she’s not moving.

Her clothes are stained with blood and her skin is a sickly color.

He reaches out to touch her and he opens his mouth to scream

but all he gets is a lungful of water, and he’s choking and thrashing and as his head breaks the surface he thinks he can hear himself sobbing in between coughs but it doesn’t even matter because  _it_ 's there again, watching him with a curious tilt of its head and he's screaming at it suddenly, demanding to know what it wants, because if he can just know  _why_  he thinks he might be able to die in peace and oh god he’s going to  _die_  and he squeezes his eyes shut as  _it_  reaches out again to take him

He doesn’t open his eyes for several seconds. He’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But when his hands move on the ground beside him and he hears the rustling of paper rather than the rustling of leaves, curiosity wins over, and he blinks against the dim light of Tim’s living room.

Tim’s living room.

He tries to move his legs, his shoes shuffling loudly against the papers all around him, but reconsiders the movement with a wince, pressing a hand to the hole in his stomach. He lets his eyes flicker across the papers, his throat tightening with every “YOUR FAULT” and “NO HOPE” and “GIVE UP” and he squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to obey.

His head falls back against the wall behind him, and he can barely breathe against the agony but he forces himself to stay awake, because this is  _Tim’s_ house and Tim will be back any minute, surely, because he’d been running away from that building so he’s probably on his way right now and he’ll help.

Right?

He shudders as he remembers the last time he’d come here, bringing a knife and shaky intentions, and a small sob rocks his slight frame at the thought that maybe Tim doesn’t  _want_  to save him, not anymore, not after everything he’s done and he blinks against the “YOUR FAULT” burned into his eyelids as warm tears start to roll down his face.

_No_.

Tim will come for him.

He has to.

He’ll come. Any minute now.

He’ll be here. 


End file.
